


Ambedo

by killingsaray



Category: Vis a Vis | Locked In (Spain TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist!Rizos, Emotional Baggage, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, LMAO Saray is celibate, Mild Addiction, Poet!Saray, References to Depression, Rizay, Rizos is sad af, Zulema is cupid, eventual Zurena, lovemaking, spoken word poetry, utter fucking FILTH
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:07:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28392864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killingsaray/pseuds/killingsaray
Summary: "ambedo: n.;a kind of melancholic trance in which you become completely absorbed in vivid sensory details."ORThe one where Rizos is a depressed artist who feels like she has nothing to say. And Saray... well, Saray seems always has the right words.
Relationships: Estefanía "Rizos" Kabila/Saray Vargas
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26





	Ambedo

* * *

_ambedo: n.;_

_a kind of melancholic trance in which you become completely absorbed in vivid sensory details --raindrops skittering down a window, tall trees leaning in the wind, clouds of cream swirling in your coffee-- which leads to a dawning sense of awareness of the haunting fragility of life, a mood whose only cure is the vuvuzela._

_-The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows_

* * *

_Estefanía_

It’s raining. 

It’s _been_ raining for the last week, and it’s a fitting backdrop for Estefanía’s melancholia. The raindrops mimic her tears, and the dark gray sky feels as if it only hovers above her crown of wild curls. 

Truth be told, it’s given her the perfect excuse to remain barricaded inside of her flat. She isn’t ready to converse with other humans. Hasn’t been for the last six months. 

Her twin sister, Judith, comes every few days and leaves groceries and art supplies outside of her flat door. Sometimes she sits and talks to Estefanía through the door, making her laugh and reminding her that she’s loved. 

Her best friend, Macarena, has been out of town for three months on some godforsaken excursion with the rich, married man she’s been sleeping with. 

Estefanía doesn’t judge her. Doesn’t resent her for not being here during one of the worst times of her life. Everyone has their own shit. 

It’s almost as if Estefanía manifests her best friend’s appearance when the lock on her front door turns and she hears the familiar tinkling of keys. 

The brunette sets down her steel paint palette and turns towards the sound, heart suddenly beating quicker. She curses herself for not putting the chain lock back on the door because what if it’s—.

“Honey, I’m home!” Macarena sing-songs. 

_Oh thank god_ , Estefanía thinks in relief, but her heart has yet to get the memo that she’s safe because the sheer comfort of Macarena’s voice alone is enough for the torrential downpour that follows. The dam that Estefanía has tried to build up with the pieces of her soul finally breaks and she cries. Macarena’s happy face falls and she drops her luggage and handbag in the front corridor and makes a beeline for her best friend. At the same time, Estefanía stands from her stool and meets her halfway, arms immediately wrapping around her neck when their bodies meet. 

“What’s wrong?” Macarena asks, her voice soft and soothing. She shushes Estefanía while stroking her back in calming circles. “What’s happened?”

“I missed you,” the brunette manages between wracked sobs.”

Maca makes a small _aww_ sound and squeezes her tighter. She knows that’s not all, but Estefanía has always been the type of person to explain in her own time. When she finally calms enough that Macarena feels safe enough to pull away, she cups Estefanía’s face in her hands and wipes her tears away with her thumbs. 

“I brought you something, and I think it’ll help you feel better.”

Estefanía knows what it is. Maca always brings her back some sort of exotic liquor from whatever country she returns from. It’s not unwelcome, if she’s honest with herself because she’s already had a Xanax and that didn’t work. 

Sure enough, Maca crouches down in her four-inch heels with the ease that comes with practice, opens her suitcase, and produces two bottles of alcohol: one wine and one tequila.

“Ta-da.” She smiles.

“Where are these from?” Estefanía asks, taking the wine from her and heading to the open concept kitchen.

“The wine is a vintage from Bordeaux, and the tequila is from Tijuana.”

Estefanía isn’t surprised. The married man that she’s seeing does something in stock trading or finance? She doesn’t concern herself with the details. The less she knows, the better. Instead, she focuses on opening the bottle of wine, pouring each of them a glass and then returning to her painting in the living room. 

Maca follows behind her, kicking off her heels and leaving them where they fall. She plops down on the teal velvet couch and watches as Estefanía picks up her palette and begins to paint again.

Silence. 

For Maca, it feels like forever because she wants to ask Estefanía about her painting. It’s… dark. Void of color. The world she is creating is only black and white and gray where the yin meets the yang. It’s much different than the Basquiat-esque neo-expressionism that always seems vivid and alive.

“I broke up with Ismael.”

Maca sits up. Leans forward, forearms resting on her knees. She doesn’t speak.

“I just,” Estefanía sighs and grabs a clean paintbrush, “had enough.”

 _Thank god_ , thinks Maca.

“He, uh, f-,” her voice wavers. She takes a sip of wine. “Fuck him.”

Macarena sees her slumped shoulders suddenly broaden as she fixes her posture. The thick brush in her hand slashes a vibrant red streak through the abstract painting and then she ceremoniously drops it onto cloth tarp underneath her workspace.

They nearly finish half of the bottle when Estefanía realizes that the rain has stopped and the sun has decided to make an appearance. It makes sense. She always feels better with Macarena here. Feels more like herself, despite what the trauma she’s keeping inside.

“Oh, look!” Macarena says and turns her phone to show Estefanía what is supposed to be a picture she took during her trip. Her thumb slips as the screen becomes clear and it’s an advertisement for a poetry slam at a local club. She takes the phone from Macarena scrolls up, opening the link.

“This looks cool.”

Maca leans over the screen, brows furrowed. “What is it?”

“Spoken word poetry night.”

“Ooh, we should go!”

Estefanía groans, shaking her head. “It’s tonight. I don’t really think I’m in the mood to go anywhere.”

“That’s exactly why we should go out. It’ll take your mind off of the asshole. Plus, it might be nice to be around some other artists.”

Well, she’s not wrong.

 _Maybe_ , Estefanía muses, _I’ll begin to feel like myself again_.

* * *

_Saray_

It’s raining.

It’s been raining for the last week, and it’s the most incredible phenomenon Saray has ever seen. The Earth is cleansing itself; breathing new life into the lush grass and color back into the hibiscus and sunflowers on the windowsill outside of her bedroom.

 _Will it breathe new life inside of my soul?_ , she wonders. It’s been so long since she’s felt complete. A year to be precise.

The end of a relationship always forces Saray to reexamine what she wants out of life and in love. She takes time to comprehend what she’s learned and how to apply it to her next relationship. This time, however, it’s taken longer to reopen her heart to the possibility of something new. 

Saray closes the journal in front of her, content with what she’s written to the soundtrack of the pouring rain. Her thoughts. There are always so many of them at once, sometimes to the point that she becomes so overwhelmed with emotion that she shuts down. 

So, she journals. 

Often.

The clock on her desk tells her that there isn’t much time left before she has to be at her best friend’s club for the spoken word night. Saray stands and slips the leatherbound diary between two obscure books of poetry on the floating shelf above her desk. She hears Miles Davis begin to play and she smiles softly. Walking down the hall, the music gets louder until she peaks her head into the open door to her left.

“Feeling blue?” She teases lightly as she makes her way into the eccentrically-decorated bedroom and plops down onto the bed.

“That was so funny I forgot to laugh,” deadpans the figure sitting at the small desk in the corner.

“You’re just mad that my humor isn’t genetic,” Saray grins, picking up the stuffed scorpion beside her, a gift from her godmother.

“Mama, can I go to a party tonight?”

“Am I dead yet?”

Estrella Vargas, Saray’s sixteen-year-old daughter, turns around in her chair and gives her mother a look.

“Because the only way you’re going to a party is-.”

“Over your dead body, yeah yeah yeah.” Estrella turns back around and types something into her laptop. “Then can I come to _madrina_ ’s club with you tonight?”

“No, you’ll cramp my style.”

“Mama!”

“Fine, yes, you can go to your party,” Saray pushes off of the pillows and stands back up. “Back home by eleven.” 

“Twelve,” counters Estrella.

“Ten-thirty.”

“Eleven-forty-five.”  
“Ten-fifteen.” Saray replies, crossing the room and coming to stand beside her daughter.

“You’re going the wrong way!” Estrella laughs. 

Saray grins and playfully tugs at her daughter’s ear. “Eleven-fifteen at the latest.”

“ _Vale_. What’s for dinner?”

“Veggie stir fry. Esta bien?”

Estrella nods and pulls her feet up into her chair as she excitedly types something into the chat box on her computer screen.

Saray makes an early dinner for them and by the time the food is plated, the sun has come out. 

_Something new is coming_ , Saray thinks as she tucks into the meal set before them. She can feel it.

She finishes dinner and showers, dressing for her performance tonight. Before she leaves the house, she and Estrella do their complex, super-secret handshake followed by a tight embrace. 

“ _Buena suerte_.”

“ _Cuidate_.”

* * *

_ El Oasis _

It’s nearly showtime by the time Estefanía and Macarena enter the tiny speakeasy-esque club. The last thing Estefanía sees is the cotton-candy ombré sky, and she tries to hang on to the feeling. If one could even call it that. 

Once inside, Estefanía takes in the warm lighting and interesting decor. It reminds her of a smoky jazz club seen in films, except with dark blue and red neon lights that backlight a stage. The patrons inside are all different, but somehow Estefanía can tell they’re all artists of some sort. From poets to painters to writers and beyond, the vibe is welcoming, yet laid back. They find two free seats at a tall, round table in the middle of the club. Almost immediately, napkins are placed before them and a waitress with cropped hair makes her way over to them. Estefanía can just barely read her name tag thanks to the neon sign bouncing off of the shiny metal. 

_ Flaca _ .

They order drinks and no sooner have they received their drinks, the lights dim completely, the place only lit by the neon signs and the spotlight that snaps on, bathing the black linoleum stage with a circle.

A raven-haired woman in oversized clothing and platform combat boots jogs up the three small stairs onto the stage and stands before the microphone, arms outstretched. In a husky voice that is cigarettes and fearlessness, she commands the crowd’s attention in four words, “ _ Bienvenido a El Oasis _ .” 

Scattered catcalls and whistles follow her greeting and she grins, and Estefanía just knows she is the type of woman that gets what she wants.

“If you’re new here, thanks for coming. I’m Zulema, owner of El Oasis, so that may make me biased, but I think you’re in for a treat. If you’re not new, welcome back and as always, we hope you find what you’re looking for here.”

She envies Zulema.

“Tonight’s poetry slam lineup is incredible. These poets are so talented and have made the conscious decision to share a piece of their souls with you tonight. You guys know there are only two rules here at El Oasis: be respectful and show love. So, let’s get into it. Our first artist for tonight is a vet here. Please welcome to the stage, Mónica Ramala.”

Zulema leads the audience in a round of applause as a slender woman in a flowing, deep-red dress and hair-wrap to match climbs up the stairs. Mónica passes Zulema, who squeezes her arm reassuringly before hopping off of the stage, and then the blonde takes her place at the mic. 

One after another, the talented artists climb onto the stage, bare their souls and leave with a heart that is a little less heavy. There are nine, thus far, and by the time Zulema returns to center-stage, Estefanía’s heart is pumping with something that she wishes she will never be able to put into words.

“Our final poet tonight is very well-known, not only here at El Oasis. I’m lucky enough to get to call her my best friend, please show love to Saray Vargas.”

The crowd’s applause is unreal. Estefanía looks around and suddenly realizes that the place is packed, and those who couldn’t find a seat are standing wherever they can.

“This is her. The one I was telling you about,” the girl beside Estefanía whispers to her friend.

“She  _ is _ cute,” her friend responds.

It isn’t long before Estefanía sees who they are gushing about. The tall brunette in question starts up the steps to the stage and meets Zulema halfway, pulling her into a tight embrace. When they pull away, Saray puts her hands on Zulema’s face, lovingly before giving one cheek a playful tap. Zulema chuckles as she hops off of the stage, leaving Saray standing in the spotlight. 

Saray takes a deep breath, eyes closing briefly 

“ _I speak_ ,” she begins, “ _for the completely broken_. _I write for the utterly destroyed._ ”

Estefanía’s spine straightens and she leans forward in her chair. Macarena shoots a furtive glance at her friend out of her peripheral, the corner of her lips twitching upwards in a knowing smile. 

“ _ And sometimes, _ ” Saray continues, “ _ the poem is harsher than the heartbreak. The pen, at times will be sharper than the knife, and the paper will, more often than not, only accompany the pain instead of alleviating it. I’ll be honest, I’ve written so many poems in blood, it’s become a normality for me to always feel this faint. _ ”

Her heart begins to pound, but she realizes that for the first time in a long time, it didn’t come with a side effect of sweating palms and shortness of breath. No, Estefanía understands, this is not an anxiety attack. This is… something else. She is  _ feeling  _ something else. And thank god for that because she’s been searching for so long to feel something other than the crippling anxiety and chronic depression that comes along with her post-traumatic stress disorder. 

_ “I am a scribe for that little voice in the back of your head that whispers ‘do not be discouraged, you are not forgotten’. Your despair is temporary and your suffering is finite.” _

She wants to close her eyes and let Saray’s voice wrap around her senses like a soothing incense, but she doesn’t want to miss a single second of the beauty that is Saray Vargas. With her dark hair, and thick eyebrows and big, expressive eyes.

Saray holds her hands up in front of her face, inspecting both sides as she says, _ “My fingertips are sliced from collecting the shards of my heart that’s been shattered more times for you than for myself, in the hopes that one day, you’ll know what it’s like to be whole. And you can read your story from the outside looking in. But, for now, I’ll do what I can. I‘ll breathe through your pain, and put pen to paper in a desperate plea for the universe to relieve my suffering. And hopefully… some of yours.” _

Saray presses her hands together as if she is about to pray, nods her head in gratitude at the audience and then waves as she walks off the stage to the sounds of a standing ovation. 

Estefanía stands to her feet with the rest of the audience and watches the brunette as she heads through a door marked ‘Employees Only’. 

Zulema is back on stage before Estefanía can pull her eyes off of Saray’s retreating back. 

“That’s it for tonight, guys. Tonight’s poets will be in the lounge at the cash bar. All of the proceeds from the bar will go to helping end the backlog of rape kits.”

Estefanía wants so desperately to meet Saray. To offer her some words of gratitude for sharing a piece of herself with the crowd. But she doesn’t. She can’t. She can barely get past the applauding crowd without anxiety rearing its ugly head. Estefanía loses the blonde somewhere in the crowd; she’s probably hit the bar, and that’s where the brunette wants to be, but she finds that her feet are pulling her towards the door. If she can just get a quick inhale of fresh air, she’s sure she’ll be just fine. 

The moment the cool night breeze slaps her across the face, Estefanía takes a deep breath. The door slams shut behind her and her heart lurches out of her chest. 

She hates this. Hates feeling like this. This isn’t her. She knows it isn’t. She is normally the life of the party. The one everyone calls when they want to have a good time. But after… Ismael… she just can’t shake this feeling that another opportunity for trauma is lurking just around the corner. Her eyes close and her face turns towards the night sky. There’s silence. And it’s so fucking beautiful.

Quiet.

Too quiet, really, and she suddenly feels like she’s being watched. That’s when she smells a freshly lit cigarette mixed with something else. Turning to the right, her eyes land on a tall brunette in a loose black shirt, wild dark hair daring to kiss her biceps.

“I wanted to say ‘hi’ but it looks like you’re having a moment.”

“Sorry, I just--.” Estefanía’s ears turn red, thank god she’s worn her hair down. She stops herself and takes another breath, and says, “I liked your poem.”

“Thank you. I like your curls.”

Estefanía’s hand reaches up and self-consciously adjusts any flyaways. Saray notices. Smiles, but doesn’t say anything. She takes another puff and turns her head to blow the smoke away from Estefanía.

“Thanks,” she says for lack of anything else to say. 

“You’re welcome.” Saray doesn’t say anything else. She simply studies Estefanía’s face as if she’s trying to memorize it. As if she wants to find the right words to describe it. 

As if she wants to write a poem about it. 

“You have sad eyes,” Saray notes.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“It is if you’re sad.”

“Are there happy people with sad eyes?”

“Of course. There are tons of people who love their lives but they have round, dark eyes that look like they hold the ocean within them. And then, there are the people who don’t love their lives, and hold the depths of the ocean in their hearts too.” 

Estefanía considers this. “I think I’m the latter.”

“You think?”

She nods, straightens her posture a little because she’s suddenly hit with the reminder that she  _ knows _ who she is, it’s just hard to put into words sometimes. “I know I can be happier. Or at least less melancholy, but I think for now I’m the latter.”

Saray nods now. She’s finished her cigarette and there’s really no reason for her to be out here any longer, except she can’t bring herself to stop fucking  _ staring _ at the curly-haired goddess before her. So she holds out her hand. 

“I’m Saray.”

“I know. I’m Estefanía.”

“Estefanía,” Saray repeats, rolls the syllables around her tongue until she can almost taste their meaning.

_ Crown, garland _ . 

“It suits you.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. You’re adorned with a crown of curls.”

Estefanía has never heard her hair talked about as if it’s a gift. Usually, she’s cursing it because it never does what she wants it to do. But now, suddenly, she’s never felt more proud of them. 

They gaze at one another for a moment. Estefanía doesn’t know what to say. Saray has much too much to say but doesn’t want to scare off the sad-eyed, curly-haired woman. 

Estefanía’s lips part to break the silence, but she’s interrupted when the front door opens and Macarena steps out. “There you are! I thought you bailed.”

“Still here.”

Saray pushes off of the brick wall and slips around her new acquaintance. Before she enters the club again, she turns to Estefanía. 

“It was nice to meet you,  _ rizos _ .”

Estefanía smiles. “It was nice to meet you, too,  _ gitana _ .”

Saray disappears, smiling politely at Maca as she passes her.

The blonde grins at her best friend. 

“Don’t start.”

Maca put her hands up in surrender. “I didn’t say anything,” then she exits the door, nudges Estefanía’s shoulder with her own and mockingly finishes, “ **_rizos_ ** .”

**Author's Note:**

> all poetry in this story is my own and I would thoroughly appreciate it if no one reposts it anywhere without my permission or credit. if it happens, I'll delete this story. my words are all I have, please let me keep them. -ash.
> 
> other than that, I'm killingsaray on twitter and tumblr if you want to come and say hi!


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